


Questions Answered

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, disorientation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 08:40:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16783507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: An injured Erik wakes up in an unfamiliar room





	Questions Answered

Awareness comes slowly. The stiffness in his joints, legs so heavy it feels as if he has not moved them in years. Pain along his ribs, dull but didn’t it burn before? Something about burning. More burning, left side and right. Arm (which? Oh, left). Chest, high…collarbone. Belly…maybe he should not try to move.

If he does not move the pain in his legs will get worse.

His head throbs, front of his head, warning him that he should not try to open his eyes, should try to go back to sleep (was he asleep? He doesn’t remember), but how he can he sleep when there is so much pain? In every part of him?

His eyes flicker open

And beg to be closed again.

He has only the faint impression of a room, greens and blues and a blurred face beside him.

A blurred face and…oh. A hand, twined with his, fingers laced between his own.

He should have noticed it sooner. A slight twitch of his fingers, independent of him, and the hand squeezes tighter.

“I’m here, Erik, I’m here.” He knows that voice. Knows it better than his own, feels it in his bones, in his blood, in his heart. That voice, most precious of all voices.

Faisal.

He sucks in a breath and almost gags on the pain, exhales slowly, wills his stomach to obey, to behave and stop roiling. And after a moment it does, it listens to him, and he is aware of Faisal’s fingers tapping the back of his hand.

He opens his eyes again, slower.

The room drifts into view. Greens and blues and faint golds and he does not recognize it, does not know it, the only recognizable thing is Faisal beside him.

Faisal who has bags under his eyes, whose face is pale, whose features are pinched as if he has not slept in…in days.

What happened?

He doesn’t realize he says it aloud, or more accurately croaks it, until his throat rasps and feels as if it is about to bleed.

Faisal’s lip quirks. “I was hoping you could tell me. You turned up like this. Gave Darius quite a shock when you collapsed on top of him.”

Another time he might almost be able to laugh at the image. Now he casts his mind back, tries to remember…tries to remember anything other than straightening his hat and swirling on his cape. He was going out, wasn’t he? But where? Why?

Just a blank space.

Panic flares, makes his breath catch in his throat and his heart pound, Faisal’s hand tightening around his. Why can’t he remember? He’s supposed to remember! He always remembers!

Faisal’s voice is soft in his ear, the words meaningless and he struggles to gasp in a breath, to get control of himself. Where he was going doesn’t matter. That can be worked out later. What matters is where he is now.

“Where am I?”

Faisal’s fingertips are cool on his cheek, stroke away…a tear? Is he crying? Why is he crying?

It explains the blurriness, and he blinks, suddenly aware of the dampness in his eyes.

“The guest room. It was closer than mine. Easier to—to tend to you.”

Faisal is being vague. He knows that tone of his voice and he should press him for answers but he lets the matter drop, too tired to try.

Too tired, too sore, and all he wants is Faisal, to feel Faisal beside him.

“Join me. Please.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” The argument makes sense but dammit it’s not what he needs to hear.

“Risk it.”

Hesitation, a moment’s hesitation, and then the faint pressure of lips against his, and he sighs into that mouth, swallows, his eyes drifting closed.

The lips disappear, air suddenly cold, and then the bed shifts, heat drifting through the sheets, and an arm comes around him, a warm weight. He presses back, into the body it belongs to, and lips brush his ear.

“Sleep, my love.” The voice is soft, all he needs. “Just sleep.”

And he obeys.


End file.
